So it was exactly as Kahini said.
“Let me explain something to you,” she added. “Every day, the rani wakes at six to start her morning prayers and then watches us while we are on the maidan. Before her pregnancy, she would practice with us as well. After we return, she bathes, and then we all attend puja. Afterward, we read, she has a nap, then we accompany her to the Durbar Hall and she eventually makes her way here. When we return to the Panch Mahal, we have the evening meal and some entertainment. Then we sleep and the next day begins again at six. The rani is a firm believer in routine. It’s never altered.” Then she said, “The rani is very predictable. The raja, however, is not. Only Kahini is allowed to call him by his name, and that is because they grew up in the same house.”
I lowered my head, and I couldn’t have felt worse if I had just offended the rani herself. I spent the rest of our time in the temple in silence.
When we were finished, we retrieved our juti on the marble steps. The evening rain had gone, and as we walked, the puddles were bathed in the glow of oil lamps hanging from the eaves of every building. The walk to the temple had been downhill; we now had to walk uphill, but without the rain, it was a much more pleasant task. I suppose everyone was lost in her own thoughts, because no one spoke.
When we reached the Panch Mahal, I stood in the courtyard for a moment and looked out beyond the gates and over the city. In the light of the setting sun, the houses were bathed in pools of gold and purple shadow. Somewhere below I knew there was a sign that read, BOOKS: HINDI, MARATHI, ENGLISH. Books never led to trouble the way interacting with people did, and you couldn’t be overly familiar with them. I wished I could afford something from that shop.
“Are you coming inside?” Jhalkari asked.
I followed the other women back into the queen’s room. Bowls of soup had been laid out at a low wooden table. I took a place on an empty cushion next to Jhalkari while servants brought in trays of steaming rice, curries made with green chilies and coriander, and vegetables cooked in heavy sauces. I wanted to savor it all, especially the fruit, which came last. But the meal was cut short since the rani wasn’t hungry. Afterward—because of what Sundari had said—I anticipated that the rani would ask one of us to read aloud, or perhaps call for court musicians. Instead, she announced that she had a meeting to attend.
“At this hour?” Kahini said.
“Nana Saheb has come with Tatya Tope and Azimullah Khan. They’re only staying for the night. We have news to discuss.”
Kahini made a dismissive noise in her throat, which seemed tremendously disrespectful to me. “Important news? Did Saheb’s favorite tailor die?”
The rani gave Kahini a very sharp look. “I’ll remind you Saheb is the son of the Peshwa.”
“Who lost his crown to the British before he could teach his son anything of use.”
“That’s enough.” But the rani didn’t really seem angry.
“I’ll bet he is wearing more gold than you are,” Kahini predicted.
“Are we to accompany you?” Sundari asked.
“No. I’ll make my own way to the Durbar Hall,” the rani said.
Kahini’s face remained neutral until the rani left. Then she rose from her cushion and exclaimed, “What kind of news would suddenly demand a private meeting?”
“The rani is free to do as she wishes,” Sundari said.
“And we are her Durgavasi! We’re here to protect her.”
“From what?” Mandar arranged her masculine features into a scowl. “Her closest childhood friends?”
But Kahini would not leave it alone. “If I was the rani, I would not remain friends with men as ignorant as Azimullah Khan and Tatya Tope.”
“Why would you say that?” Sundari demanded.
“I grew up at court. I recognize dangerous men when I see them.”